He shook his head with emphasis. ‘No, thanks. Just the coffee, good and strong, that’s all I want.’
‘Not to worry,’ she assured him. ‘The food won’t be wasted. I haven’t started cooking Karen’s breakfast yet, so she can have yours. Give her a shout, tell her to come down right away, her breakfast’s ready.’
He went into the hall and called loudly up the stairs. Without waiting for an answer he went along to the utility room, coming back into the kitchen a minute or two later.
Christine was pouring his coffee. He began to drink it at once, scalding hot, black, very strong. Christine switched on the radio, giving it half an ear. She finished laying the table and returned to the cooker where the contents of the pan were ready for dishing up.
‘Where’s that girl?’ she exclaimed on a note of irritation. ‘I don’t hear her moving.’
‘Perhaps she wants a lie-in,’ Ian suggested. ‘She may have gone to bed late.’
‘She certainly wasn’t up when I got in.’ Christine moved to the kitchen door. ‘And I know she doesn’t want to be up late this morning. She told me she wants to go to the Amnesty book sale.’
In the hall she called sharply up the stairs. There was no reply.
She clicked her tongue, muttered something and went rapidly up to Karen’s bedroom. She beat a loud tattoo on the door.
No reply, no sound from within.
She thrust the door open and marched in. She came to a sudden halt.
The room was empty. The bed had not been disturbed, the covers lay smoothly in place. The curtains were drawn back, the window closed. Everything neat and orderly.
She stood staring round, frowning down at the carpet. Then she went along the corridor to the bathroom and looked in. She opened every door upstairs and glanced inside, then she went slowly downstairs again.
Ian was pouring himself more coffee. He became aware of her silent presence in the kitchen doorway and turned his head.
‘She’s not here,’ Christine said flatly.
He frowned. ‘Not here?’
‘Her bed’s not been slept in. She’s not anywhere upstairs. I’ve looked.’
He stared blankly at her.
She burst out: ‘I know where she is! She’s with that Paul Clayton!’
‘Clayton?’ he echoed in incredulous tones. ‘You don’t think she’s run off with him?’
‘Run off?’ she repeated with a startled face. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant. I never thought of that.’
She turned and went running up the stairs again. He heard her moving noisily about, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards.
She came down again a few minutes later. ‘She hasn’t taken any of her things.’
Ian drank his coffee. ‘I don’t see why you should jump to the conclusion that she’s with Clayton. She could easily have stayed the night with some girl from college.’
‘Then why hasn’t she let us know?’
‘She probably tried to, and couldn’t. There was no one here to answer the phone. She could have gone to a disco or a club, or a party maybe, with some students from the college. She could have missed the last bus, decided to stay the night with one of the girls. She’s probably still in bed, fast asleep.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘It’s only just gone half past seven.’ He took another drink of his coffee. ‘I can’t honestly see there’s any real need to worry. She’ll phone us as soon as she gets up.’
She gazed at him in silence, then she said slowly, ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. That could be what happened.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ he said heartily. ‘She’ll be here by the time you get back from your round. If she phones, I’ll be here to answer it. Now stop worrying and forget it. Sit down and eat your breakfast. We could give the Musgroves a ring after you’ve eaten, see if Karen’s there, or if Lynn knows where she might be. We can’t very well ring them yet, it’s too early.’
It was by now broad daylight, the sky still flamed a brilliant orange-gold from the sunrise. On the northernmost edge of Overmead a lad of thirteen let himself out of the back door of the cottage where he lived, took his bicycle from the shed and loaded it up with his fishing tackle, his sandwiches and flask, a folded macintosh in case of any more storms of rain.
But the morning looked fine enough as he set off down the lane. A minute or two later he entered a side road running south. It would take him to the main road which he would cross, continuing south, headed for the river.
He whistled cheerfully as he pedalled along. There was as yet scarcely any traffic. The birds sang, sunlight glittered yesterday’s puddles of rain.
As he came into sight of the main road the rough tracts of Overmead Wood stretched out before him on his right. He looked over at the wood with old affection; he had spent many a happy hour there with his mates, playing Robin Hood.
Something caught his eye among the trees, a long, bright loop of yellow, dangling from a branch. He slowed his pace. A broad grass verge, still muddy from the rain, overgrown with weeds and brambles, ran along the edge of the wood. A number of books were scattered over the ground. A fancy, light-coloured bag or satchel lay among the reedy grass and dead thistles, spilling its contents.
A long-tailed pheasant rose from the verge and flew away as he halted and laid his bike down on a little rising mound, comparatively clean. Mindful of his clothes and footwear, he picked his way to inspect the books, the bag with its contents: notebooks, pens, pencils, a case of mathematical instruments, all soaking wet. He touched nothing, he left everything where it lay. Then he straightened up and made his way along a narrow track, treacherous and slippery, meandering between oaks and chestnuts, sycamores and birches, to where the long yellow scarf hung from its bough, drenched with rain, the yarn snagged and snarled where the wind had flung it against rough bark.
He glanced about, peered into the recesses of the wood. On the ground, some distance away, a flash of the same bright colour caught his eye. He moved gingerly towards it.
When he was still a little way off he stopped suddenly and put a hand up to his mouth. The vague blur of colour had all at once resolved itself into a tattered yellow cap on the head of someone lying sprawled face down in a muddied clearing between the trees.
Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey, a big, solid rock of a man with a freckled face and shrewd green eyes, a head of thickly-springing carroty hair, left the woodland clearing and made his way towards his car, followed by Detective Sergeant Lambert. A minute search of the area was already under way.
It was plain from the scatter of books on the grass verge that the dead girl was Karen Boland, a student at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education. A library ticket in an inside pocket of her jacket supplied her address.
The
